


Dragons at the Ranch

by wrothmothking



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Childhood Friends, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 09:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: Rook knew a boy named John once.





	Dragons at the Ranch

**Author's Note:**

> Rook's necklace: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B008FDK3TC/ref=sspa_dk_detail_3?psc=1&pd_rd_i=B008FDK3TC  
> You can imagine it how you like, though. :) There aren't any details given in-text.

Rook's conflicted: on the one hand, John leaving the room gives him a chance to escape, on the other, he's taking Hudson with him. Hudson, with her frantic, muffled screams and her face blackened with tears. He could find her, maybe. She could last a while longer, _maybe_. She appears unharmed, physically, but their uniforms can conceal a great deal.

"You're not doing this to save us," he says, the first words he's said to John.

It gets the man's attention. He stops dragging Hudson's chair and stalks down the scant yard between them until he's leaning over Rook. Having a known torturer and probable murderer intent on his bound form should at the very least make Rook a tad anxious, yet he feels only relief. Better him than anyone else.

"You think I enjoy it?"

"I do, Joseph too. He's right, you know. This sin will kill you."

He hears John's little cart crash into the wall, but doesn't move his gaze from John's, unflinching.

"You need help, John. You have a family, people that don't want to lose you."

In a blink, John's close enough to kiss--or bash his nose in. If not for the hand suddenly around his throat, Rook might've been tempted. It simply rests there, a reminder of John's power over him. A warning.

"Someone's been snooping."

"Don't know what else to say?" Rook frowns, tilts his head in mock sympathy.

"Joseph was wrong about you. You are not fit for our table."

"I assume you don't mean as a guest." One run-in with Jacob had been plenty, nevermind the second.

Hudson's chair tips over. Neither of them pay her any mind.

"You don't know anything, about me, my family, or our faith!"

Rook kind of wishes that was true.

The hand gives a light, teasing, promising squeeze, then releases him. And as it slowly, lingeringly pulls away, it finds something. His necklace.

"What do we have here?"

Pretend it doesn't matter, and he won't take it. He'll lose interest.

Rook makes the mistake of not replying at all.

John tugs the necklace free from under his clothing and lifts it over Rook's head. Not wanting it to break, he cooperates.

The pendant shouldn't mean anything to John. He shouldn't go still as he examines it, smug smile brittle, eyes teary.

It's a common name, John. Rook never thought to consider a connection, and, really, it's terribly impossible. Rook's John had brown hair. His eyes, while a similar shade if not the exact, possessed none of the manic glee that so often dances in the herald's. This John is expressive, attention-driven, sadomasochistic. Rook's John cried when he found a dead bird.

How much could a person change?

Despite himself, despite John's evil, despite this insane war and fucking everything else...

Rook wants them to be the same. 

* * *

They met as foster brothers, an orphan with nothing and a boy with family but too many scars and not enough fat. Rook--or Adam, as he'd not yet earned that nickname--had already lost count of the homes he'd passed through. For John, it was his first night outside his brothers' company.

At first, Adam tried to ignore him, embittered by his own lousy lot and all too aware of their transience in each other's lives. But John's cries were loud in the small room they shared, his tears glimmering in the light pouring in from the lamppost. So, rolling out of bed, Adam grabbed his backpack and stepped up and over John, preferring to press against the cool wall. The boy froze at his actions, lying prone beside him as Adam took from his bag a lantern and flicked it on.

"Do you like dragons?"

John blinked at him. It _was_ a rather odd thing to ask a stranger out of the blue, even between children. Not counting their earlier monitored, miserable hellos upon meeting and Adam muttering a quiet 'excuse me' passing him in the hall, the question marked their first exchange.

"Yeah?"

"Good, 'cause this is the only book I have on me." 'This' being Cornelia Funke's _Dragon Rider_. "You don't mind if I real aloud, do you?"

"Why do you care?"

"Who's to say I do? It's cold and I need to practice so I don't embarrass myself in class. I'm using you."

Even if it wasn't mid-summer, hot and humid, John wouldn't have fallen for Adam's excuses. He wasn't meant to. 

* * *

"You're not a lamb at all. You're a dragon."

That's the pendant: a dragon. A symbol of their doomed friendship, bought with the last of John's allowance. And then John was adopted, and Rook wasn't.

"What's my name, John?"

"Adam," he breathes-

And crumples.

"Hudson, stop!"

She freezes mid-swing. "Why the hell should I? Worried I'll end your little love affair with this monster?"

Rook winces. "It's not like that."

"What's it like, then?"

He can't stop staring at the blood on her wrench. John's out, but surely he's fine. His concern for the inquisitor bothers him; a decades-old connection shouldn't change anything. It shouldn't mean more than Hudson, Dutch, Grace, the Ryes, _Carmina_ , his infant goddaughter, and it doesn't, but fuck the idea of losing him hurts.

"We were fostered together for a while." Eight months, to be exact. "I didn't know it was him."

"Talk about one hell of a coincidence."

"I'm not Nancy. I wouldn't be in this chair if I was."

"That was before."

"No. This is _now_."

"...Alright. Okay. If you make me regret this, I swear I will put a bullet in your head," she threatens, gesturing menacingly with her wrench. Rook's impressed, if not in the way she wants; it just looks cool.

"Understood."

She bends to pick a knife from the wreckage on the floor, and then she's _down_ , curled up, hand grasping at her cut tendons, red, red blood puddling beneath her.

John stands up.

One hit hadn't been enough. He'd been playing possum. _Rook had stopped her._ Fuck.

If she had just left him, she might've been able to slip passed the guards. If she'd've just left him, she wouldn't've come in range of John's sprawl. He'd sabotaged her without even meaning to. For John, for a man he's sure still has every intention of cutting him up until Rook buys into his bullshit, and then doing the same to his friends. Whatever good will an old necklace gets him...It'll be a trick.

John draws a gun from nowhere, aims for her kneecaps-

"Don't! Please, don't do this!"

"I can't save her if she runs."

Think. "You can't save me if you hurt her."

"Everyone gives eventually."

"You don't have 'eventually'. And you know how slippery I can be."

Rook's case worker used to call him a sneaky bastard. Nothing was safe from him, no room secure. That hasn't changed.

The safety clicks on. "My bunker's a little different from detention with Mister Sanchez."

"Maybe, but your people don't have anything on Miss Jones."

Were Hudson not shaking on the cold concrete at John's feet, Rook would've returned his smile, let his heart warm at his soft chuckle.

"Everything makes sense now. Joseph's fixation on you, his obsession with love...You are my final test. By saving you, I save myself, and your return to my side shall be my reward." John drifts closer, cups Rook's face, "You are the one friend I've had in my life. I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," Rook says, and though he tells himself it's on reflex he can't deny the awful truth of it. Because no one else has ever cared for him as John had. Because he was a lonely child and is a lonelier adult and while this conflict has provided him friends, there's a clear give-and-take that strains their relationships with his doubt. Would they still care for him, after this is all over?

He's so pathetic.

Hudson looks defeated, and he hates it.

"You need to let her go."

John's face sours.

"Joseph needs a lamb, and the resistance needs a deputy. She'll tell them not to come for me."

"Now, why would she do a thing like that?"

"I'm compromised."

Shaking his head, far too amused, John argues, "They won't trade their savior for a captive of mine who couldn't even escape by herself."

"Because I stopped her from killing you."

"My thanks."

He twirls the dagger in his grip, considering. Rook should not be pleased by his skill with it, not with Hudson's blood marring its shine.

Before he can chastise himself further, his arms have been cut free of their binds. John wisely retreats to the other side of the room, thumbing the safety on his pistol. "Disarm her, then get her up."

Rook keeps his mind blank, focusing on his tasks. Untying his legs takes him twice as long as it should, too unnerved by John's stare. It never wavers. Hudson tries to take advantage of it, flounder to her feet and rush him--or something, but she falls back, slamming into the concrete with a pained groan, when she tries to move her injured leg. Rook isn't sure which of them he's relieved for, deciding to examine it later.

Taking the wrench from her feels like a bigger betrayal than it is. She hangs onto it with the desperation of a dying woman. 'You're not going to die,' he wants to tell her. 'You're going to be fine, I promise.' He doesn't dare.

Her skin is clammy. She has a fever. He marvels at her strength for making it this far. Rook wants to be angry at John for her suffering, but he can't muster the feeling. Once they're up, her slung over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, he looks to John for further instruction.

"C'mon. We're going for a drive."

Rook's made to walk in front of John. Peggies stare as he directs them through the bunker. He tries to memorize the route, but the place is a damned maze. And Hudson, strung out, shaking from fury as much as terror, failing to stifle her whimpers, keeps him distracted. He thinks her ribs are bruised, jostled by his every step. He doesn't know how to fix it. At least she isn't bleeding anymore.

He wants to ask John where they're going, what he's planning. He wants to ask a lot of things, just not with Hudson and dozens of Peggies around.

The sun hurts. Hudson's glare as he lays her in the back hurts worse. He wonders if she blames him; she has every right to.

As if sensing his thoughts, John says, "You're not responsible for all the bad things in the world, Adam."

"It's Rook."

He shuts the door on her.

John laughs. It's a nice laugh, if an unkind one. "I don't know why you insist on a new name when you're so clearly the same. You always would rather drown yourself in guilt than be angry with someone."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, John."

"For now."

Rook slides into the passenger seat and doesn't complain when John turns off the radio. He doesn't want Hudson here for this, but perhaps she's not as aware as he thinks.

"Cut the shit. I'm the same man you found so unworthy ten minutes ago."

John's grip tightens on the steering wheel. "That wasn't real. I was trying to hurt you; it's part of the process."

The gun on John's lap, could Rook reach it? Would Hudson survive a crash? She's been practically catatonic since John cut her down.

"And now?"

John's eyes snap to his. "You need a different tactic."

"And what tactic is that."

"Comfort. You already believe in me, and you're already pure. If I give you what you've been starved for, a gentle, loving hand, those other loyalties that have poisoned your heart will wilt and die."

Rook scoffs. "I'm not so easily bought."

"Nothing easy is worth keeping."

"Is that what you want me for? A prized relic from the past to show how far you've come?"

He hears Hudson pry a door open. Fortunately: the car rolls to a stop. Unfortunately: this means John heard it, too. All she's managed when he gets to her is clambering onto her elbows and knees. Rook wants to avert his gaze as he drags her out by her hair, but doesn't afford himself the luxury.

"I suppose this is as good a place as any, since my presence is so unbearable for you." The knife's in his hand again, and then it's gone soaring into the bush. He lets her go. "Get over there."

Hudson tries to stand, falters. Rook rushes to help her-

" _Don't._ Even my mercy has its limits."

Some mercy this is. Still, he's not about to complain while she's in range. He's just going to have to trust that Hudson will find her way, no matter how painful it is watching her drag herself along the pavement. Rook relaxes for the first time since he woke up in that bunker once she disappears from sight.

"Get back in the car."

Instinct says fight--he's the enemy, caught unaware. Logic says run--there's heavy foliage on both sides, and he can't be a better shot than Grace. Hudson could need him; even if she found the knife, it won't afford much protection against the wildlife or, worse, cultists.

Rook obeys.

She'll be fine. They'll all be fine.

John starts the car. Rook flicks the radio back on, not wanting to talk.

They arrive at the ranch. The ranch Rook liberated for Nick's plane. The ranch the Chosen grabbed him from after he stopped by to resupply.

Peggies loiter the area. There aren't any bodies, but Rook has no idea how long it's been. Could be they ran, could be they died.

"They abandoned you," John says.

"It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?"

"Wanting to live isn't betrayal. It isn't selfish, it's human."

The engine dies. Rook misses the music; much as his companions hate them, he has a soft spot for the cult's songs.

"You deserve better than human." John grabs his hand as it reaches for his seat belt, stopping him. Their fingers intertwine. It's tender. "You deserve a dragon. They would have to slay me, to steal you from my hoard."

"Perhaps I'll slay you myself."

"Would you?"

"I would rather save you."

This is too much.

Snatching his hand back, Rook climbs out of the car. Peggies scatter before him as he marches to the main house, John trailing behind. He only laughs when Rook slams the door in his face. Annoying bastard.

"Welcome home, Adam."

There are so many promises, so much devotion, in John's voice. And had he not already proven himself, letting Hudson go at his request despite Rook making a poor argument for it, showering him with honeyed words and soft touches, the weight of his attention unyielding yet filled with the warmth he's lacked his whole life?

'It's a lie,' he tells himself, 'don't fall for it. The resistance is waiting for you. _They_ love you.'

_'Don't they?'_

Rook's going to throw up.

He can't kill him. Either John turns traitor, or Rook does.


End file.
